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<h1><a href="https://archiveofourown.org/works/27945254">For Whom the Flowers Bloom</a> by <a class='authorlink' href='https://archiveofourown.org/users/mulderitsdee/pseuds/mulderitsdee'>mulderitsdee</a></h1>

<table class="full">

<tr><td><b>Category:</b></td><td>Hatchetfield Universe - Team StarKid, The Guy Who Didn't Like Musicals - Team StarKid</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Genre:</b></td><td>Angst with a Happy Ending, Autistic Paul Matthews, F/M, Hanahaki Disease, Hurt/Comfort, Not Actually Unrequited Love, Sickfic, Unrequited Love</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Language:</b></td><td>English</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Status:</b></td><td>Completed</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Published:</b></td><td>2020-12-07</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Updated:</b></td><td>2020-12-23</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Packaged:</b></td><td>2021-05-10 23:09:20</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Rating:</b></td><td>Teen And Up Audiences</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Warnings:</b></td><td>No Archive Warnings Apply</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Chapters:</b></td><td>4</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Words:</b></td><td>9,878</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Publisher:</b></td><td>archiveofourown.org</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Story URL:</b></td><td>https://archiveofourown.org/works/27945254</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Author URL:</b></td><td>https://archiveofourown.org/users/mulderitsdee/pseuds/mulderitsdee</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Summary:</b></td><td><div class="userstuff">
              <p>
  <i><br/>“You have an aggressive form of  hanahaki disease Mr Matthews. I’m sorry, it’s hell of a thing. Without surgery I’m afraid the disease is terminal.”<br/>Wh-how long?” asks Paul, over the sudden ringing in his ears.<br/>“Given the severity of the growths, I would estimate about six weeks, maybe seven,” says Doctor Morgan, softly.<br/>“Oh.” says Paul, and then, “okay-okay, okay.”</i>
</p><p> </p><p> </p><p> Alternately: <b> somebody</b> had to write a Paulkins Hanahaki fic and I guess that someone is me</p>
            </div></td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Relationships:</b></td><td>Paul Matthews/Emma Perkins</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Comments:</b></td><td>31</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Kudos:</b></td><td>63</td></tr>

</table>

<a name="section0001"><h2>1. Chapter 1</h2></a>
<div class="story"><div class="fff_chapter_notes fff_head_notes"><b>Author's Note:</b><blockquote class="userstuff">
      <p><i>Hanahaki Disease (花吐き病 (Japanese); 하나하키병 (Korean); 花吐病 (Chinese)) is a fictional disease in which the victim coughs up flower petals when they suffer from one-sided love. It ends when the beloved returns their feelings (romantic love only; strong friendship is not enough), or when the victim dies. It can be cured through surgical removal, but when the infection is removed, the victim's romantic feelings for their love also disappear.</i>-fanlore.org</p>
    </blockquote></div><div class="userstuff module">
    
    <p>The first sign of trouble comes when Paul’s brushing his teeth before bed on a Thursday evening. Or more precisely just after he finishes brushing them, and spits out something small and powder blue with the toothpaste. He doesn’t even notice it at first, but when he turns on the tap and the toothpaste drains away, the blue thing sticks stubbornly to the side of the basin. The soft blue colour stands out against the white of his sink and he could swear it almost looks like a flower petal. Strange, yes, but stranger things have happened in Hatchetfield, and it’s more than likely the petal stuck to his clothes on his way back from work and somehow ended up in the sink before he showered. Shrugging, Paul washes it down the sink and goes to bed. </p><p>- - - - - </p><p>By the following evening Paul’s completely forgotten about the petal in his sink, helped in part by the enthusiastic and surprisingly athletic sex he and Emma have just engaged in. They’re tangled in the bed sheets, sweaty and content. </p><p>“God damn, Black Coffee, if I knew you’d eat me out like that I’d have given you my number the second you walked through the shop's door,” says Emma, giving Paul a tired pat on the arm. He laughs, blushing a little. </p><p>“You wouldn’t have believed me if I said so, and you’d have slapped me for being a creep,” he says, and Emma makes a vague noise of agreement. This thing between them has been going on for six months now, and Paul cannot remember ever being happier. They aren’t dating, Emma has made it clear that she doesn’t do dating, cannot bear the feeling of being tied down with someone. Friends with benefits is the term that probably describes them best, though Paul hates to use it-the simple phrase cannot capture the enormity of his feelings towards Emma. The time he spends with her is some of the only moments in his life he feels genuinely calm and happy, and not the anxious mess he usually is. If hanging out and regular no-strings-attached sex is all he can have of Emma Perkins then it is enough, and he tells himself that often. </p><p>It doesn’t change the fact that he loves her, though. He realised it after five months of hook-ups and all the time spent hanging out that definitely aren't dates. Paul knows, deep down, that there is no way for this to end happily for him, that he should have stopped hooking up with Emma the moment he realised his feelings had gone from crush to love. Eventually this thing between them will end, and Paul will be heartbroken, or he’ll slip up and admit his feelings and Emma will leave him, and he will be heartbroken. It’s a terrible, stupid idea to try and keep casually hooking up with a woman he loves with every inch of his being-but he can’t stop. The heartbreak will be worth it, he thinks, for all the times he gets to see her smile. </p><p>“I’m gonna take a shower,” says Emma, oblivious to emotions swelling in Paul’s chest. She kisses him quickly on the cheek before kicking the blankets off and walking to the bathroom, still naked, though not before blowing Paul a kiss and an over the top wink. Paul laughs again, watching her go with a dopey smile on his face, trying not to think about the domesticity of her using his shower, sharing the apple scented shower gel he buys because he knows she likes it. All of a sudden his chest seizes painfully and he sits up, hacking into his hand. Once the fit is over he’s left wheezing with tears in the corner of his eyes. In his hand are eight flower petals, soft pink and speckled with blood. </p><p>“You okay in there Hotstuff?” Emma calls through the door </p><p>“Yeah just-choking on air,” replies Paul, and Emma laughs. The petals sit in his hand, strange and menacing until Paul grabs a tissue from his bedside table, wraps them in it, and shoves the whole thing under his mattress where he doesn’t have to think about it. </p><p>- - - -</p><p>Over the next couple of weeks the coughing fits come more often, and the flower petals start to increase in volume. He takes to carrying a pack of tissues around to cough them into, and becomes a master at hiding the blood stained evidence of his problem from Emma and his work friends. </p><p>“You should really get that checked out,” says Bill at work, three weeks after the first petal appeared in the sink. He looks up from whatever website he’s browsing instead of doing his work to give Paul a concerned look-the kind that only a father can manage. </p><p>“It’s just a cold,” Paul replies, voice a little raspy from the coughing fit he’s just finished having. He clenches the tissue in his fist, pointedly does not look to see how many petals he’s bought up this time or how much blood they’re stained with. </p><p>“I don’t know Paul, you sound terrible, I think Bill might be right,” comes Charlotte’s voice from the next cubicle along, full of genuine concern and kindness. </p><p>“Plus none of us want to catch any of your nasty ass germs,” says Ted, because of course he’s here too and will never pass up an opportunity to gang up on Paul. There’s a general murmur of agreement while Paul sighs and pinches the bridge of his nose. They’re right of course, he should have gone to a doctor the minute this all started, but he’s scared. Medicine has never been a particular area of study for him, but Paul’s heard stories about what happens to people who cough up flowers and none of them have happy endings. </p><p>Still, his friends are right and if nothing else he knows Bill will not let up, so Paul goes to the doctor and three days later he is sat in a small consultation room in Hatchetfield hospital with a grim faced Doctor Morgan sat across from him. </p><p>“You have an aggressive form of hanahaki disease Mr Matthews. I’m sorry, it’s hell of a thing. Without surgery I’m afraid the disease is terminal.” </p><p>“Wh-how long?” asks Paul, over the sudden ringing in his ears. </p><p>“Given the severity of the growths, I would estimate about six weeks, maybe seven,” says Doctor Morgan, softly.</p><p>“Oh.” says Paul, and then, “okay-okay, okay.” </p><p>“There are things we can try,” Doctor Morgan continues, before Paul has a chance to spiral too deeply into his panic. “There are drugs that can slow the growth of the flowers and give you more time, as well as managing the symptoms. And, of course, there is the option of surgery.” he pauses then, no doubt giving Paul a chance to take everything in, which is hard over the still persistent ringing in his ears and the sudden lack of air in the small room. Still, he tries to keep up with what the doctor is saying. </p><p>“Surgery?” he manages after a few moments. “Does that-I’ve heard hanahaki surgery stops you feeling,” everyone knows the stories. People who had the flowers cut out of their lungs only to become empty shells of their former selves, alive but only in the loosest sense of the word. Paul is no romantic, despite all evidence to the contrary, but the thought of living without laughing at Ted’s stupid jokes, or feeling the swell of pride when Alice wins awards for her plays scares him more than the thought of being dead in six weeks time. Doctor Morgan sighs again, and Paul has the feeling the good doctor has probably had this talk with most every patient to come through his doors. </p><p>“In the past, that was a possibility. The surgery is much more refined these days, but there are still risks. In very few cases patients do experience a loss of emotions, around fourteen out of a million patients. For the most part though patients suffer only mild emotional numbness and are able to live full lives,” the doctor pauses, bracing both himself and Paul for what he’s about to say next, “<i>however</i>, in many cases once the growths are removed, the patient loses all recognition and feelings towards the person who caused the infection. That is to say, whoever it is that the growth is responding to would become a stranger to you Mr Matthews, and for your own health you would have to remain as such, in order to prevent the infection from coming back. Even if you did not lose all feelings towards this person, you would still have to avoid them in order to recover fully and avoid a relapse.” </p><p>“No.” Paul knows his answer before Doctor Morgan has even finished speaking, fourteen in a million is still fourteen people and knowing his luck he would be one of them. Even without that risk however, the thought of waking up from surgery and feeling nothing towards Emma, or worse still loving her but being unable to so much as see her again? The very thought is repulsive to him, it terrifies him somewhere deep down in his soul-the same part of him that upon meeting Emma for the first time felt as if he’d known her his whole life. If the cost of living is never seeing Emma again, he does not want it. </p><p>“Mister Matthews I understand your concerns but without this surgery you will die,” says Doctor Morgan, repeating an argument he must have made hundreds of times before. Paul would almost feel sorry for him if not for the terrible thing he’s suggesting. </p><p>“What’s the surgery’s survival rate? I mean-you’re cutting into my lungs right? How many people survive it at all?” asks Paul, voice somehow both frantic and distant at the same time. Part of him is still struggling to believe that this is real: this cannot be happening to him. Any moment now he will wake up with Emma’s arms around him and discover this has all been some terrible dream. </p><p>“On average, the hanahaki surgery has a fifty five percent survival rate,” says Doctor Morgan, sounding resigned. “I understand this is a lot to take in Mr Matthews but please consider it. In the meantime I’ll write up a prescription for your painkillers and medication.” </p><p>Half an hour later Paul is walking out of the hospital with a handful of pamphlets, and a bag full of tablets. The ringing in his ears still hasn’t stopped and he suddenly feels very, very lonely. He wishes he’d asked Bill to come with him, wishes his mother were still alive so he could cry onto her shoulder about the horror of it all. He’s alone though, and he walks back to his apartment alone and for a long time he simply sits on the couch, numb and stroking his cat, Patricia. Someone will have to look after her when he’s gone. He wonders if Emma will take her for him. </p><p>Emma. </p><p>God. What the hell is he going to tell Emma? Obviously he cannot tell her the truth, that he has been stupid enough to fall in love with her, that unless she can somehow magically make herself love him back he will be dead within two months. It wouldn’t be fair to put that kind of pressure on her, for a start. How do you tell someone you’re going to die unless they love you without feeling like you’re manipulating them? How do you tell them you’re dying at all? In his pocket his phone buzzes with a text and he pulls it out with numb hands. It’s from Emma. </p><p>
  <i>Fancy hanging out later? (; </i>
</p><p>He should say no. Obviously he should say no. Doctor Morgan made it perfectly clear that the more time he spends around Emma the faster the flowers will grow, but, he reasons, he is a dead man anyway-might as well die having spent as much time with her as he can. </p><p><i>Sure (:</i> he texts back, chest aching. As soon as it’s sent he doubles over coughing, he doesn’t time to grab a tissue, or even cover his mouth. As he rasps and hacks, bloodied flower petals fall from his lips and stain the carpet of his apartment with blood.</p>
  </div></div>
<a name="section0002"><h2>2. Chapter 2</h2></a>
<div class="story"><div class="fff_chapter_notes fff_head_notes"><b>Summary for the Chapter:</b><blockquote class="userstuff">
            <p>
  <i>He kneels on the cold tile of CCRP Technical’s men’s room, heaving up blood and flower petals along with what little he’s managed to eat over the past couple of days into the toilet. Hot tears stream down his face and he’s aware, vaguely, that this is a real low point for him</i>
</p>
          </blockquote></div><div class="userstuff module">
    
    <p>Despite being given seven weeks to live not much changes for Paul, at least not at first. Doctor Morgan told him to take it easy, but the thought of sitting around in his apartment all day just waiting to die makes Paul’s skin crawl, and work at least provides a temporary distraction from his raw throat and churning stomach. The side effects of his new medication are unsurprisingly terrible, and for the first few days of taking them he ends up retching into the toilet whenever he tries to eat anything more substantial than dry toast. Still, he’s battled through years of anxiety medication side effects, he can handle this, and the painkillers at least bring a welcome relief to the constant aching tightness in his chest. </p><p>“You look like shit,” Emma says to him over the counter at Beanies one day, and Paul smiles despite the pain in his lungs. From anyone else it would be an insult, and maybe it still is, but there’s a softness to Emma’s voice, a hint of concern in her dark eyes. </p><p>“That’s what happens when you catch pneumonia,” he says, sticking to the cover story he’s given Bill and everyone else at work-though he assures them the worst has passed and the doctor has given him the okay to work given that he has a desk job. Bill didn’t look particularly convinced, but no one has questioned it which is all that really matters. </p><p>“Are you sure you should be out and about?” asks Emma, and again there’s that concerned edge to her voice, a rare undisguised softness in the way she’s looking at him. Paul’s chest spasms painfully but he forces himself to only clear his throat and swallow down the petals trying to work their way up. </p><p>“Yeah, the doctor said I was good to keep doing light work and I mean-I work in an office,” he forces a laugh around the thorns in his throat and Emma rolls her eyes at him fondly. </p><p>“Fine, but you’re getting honey tea instead of coffee-no arguments,” Emma turns around to make the tea, and Paul takes the opportunity to cough up some petals. When he finally looks up again Emma is frowning at him with that same soft, concerned look in her eyes. “Here, on the house okay? And no arguing, you’ve probably tipped enough to pay for like ten of these in the past week alone,” she pushes the to-go cup towards him and he takes it along with her demand that he get some rest, which is easier said than done. </p><p>Sleep is hard to come by for Paul these days.  Either he’s waking himself up every half an hour coughing, or he’s lying awake half the night with anxiety, and listing all the things he still has to sort out while he’s still well enough to do so. His will doesn’t really need much updating, he has no siblings and the closest family he has in Hatchetfield is his cousin Gary, whom Paul can barely stand to be around on the rare occasion they’re at any kind of event together-not exactly inheritance material. There is his dad, he supposes, but he hasn’t seen the man in person for years and Paul still hasn’t forgiven him for the heartbroken look on his mothers face when he walked out on them both. No, better instead to leave everything to Alice to see her through college. It seems the least he can do given that he won’t even be around to see her graduate high school. </p><p>Tonight Emma is staying over, the clock reads just after three am and Paul hasn’t slept a wink. He’s trying not to cough too much in case he wakes her up, but holding them in makes his lungs ache as if he’s running a marathon. Worse, though, is the mix of anxiety and desperation settled somewhere in his stomach. How many nights like this with Emma does he have left? What will happen if he tells her the truth? Will she hate him, and if she does will that make his death all the quicker? Would that be better for them both? The questions chase each other round and round his brain until his head aches in tandem with his chest. He rolls over to face Emma just in time to watch her stir, eyes opening slowly until she’s looking right back at him. </p><p>“Paul?” her voice is heavy with sleep, but one of her hands reaches out for him all the same. </p><p>“Sorry, I didn’t mean to wake you up. Go back to sleep,” he whispers, catching her hand in his own. Emma shakes her head and rubs some of the sleep from her eyes. </p><p>“What’s wrong?” she asks, because of course she can tell something’s up. Paul is an open book and over the last few months Emma has become good at reading him, just not too good, he hopes. </p><p>“Nothing just-” he could tell her, right now. He <i>should</i> tell her, “just anxiety keeping me up,” he settles on instead. Emma smiles in return, soft and understanding and Paul hates himself just a little bit more for it. </p><p>“Hey, everything’s going to be okay, okay?” she says, giving his hand a tight squeeze. Pain blossoms in Paul’s lungs and he feels the now sickeningly familiar combination of blood and petals trying to force their way up his throat-but what else can he say in return other than <i>okay?</i></p><p>- - - </p><p>Things continue like that for almost three weeks. Emma continues to give him concerned looks over cups of tea with honey, but thankfully doesn’t push. Maybe she figures Paul will talk to her when he’s ready, or maybe she’s starting to regret hooking up with an anxious disaster with apparently weak lungs, Paul doesn’t know. In the mornings he puts a warm t-shirt on under his button up both to help with how cold he always feels these days, and to help hide some of the weight loss that has made him put an extra hole in his belt. He ever goes so far as to learn how to apply foundation to hide the shadows under his eyes and the general gaunt-worn out look that seems to be the norm now. Realistically he knows he’s trying to fool himself just as much as anyone else, but given that the alternative is embracing his painful and premature death with open arms he figures he’s allowed to indulge in a bit of denial to keep him sane. </p><p>It’s a Tuesday morning and Paul is hunched over his computer at work trying not to shiver despite the mild May weather, and trying harder still to convince himself that the numbers on his screen hold any kind of meaning. Financial reports should be child plays to him, he has a degree in accountancy for god’s sake, but he could swear the spreadsheet in front of him has been made to be as intentionally confusing as possible. Any other time he might stretch his legs with a trip to beanies, or ask Bill to look the numbers over for him in case a fresh pair of eyes is all they need, but he can’t. He can’t because his chest hurts and his stomach is aching and he slept about two hours last night and if he walks away from his computer now he doesn’t think he’ll come back. What’s more, as long as he’s staring intently at his screen he has an excuse not to engage in whatever conversation the others are having around him. Their voices lap over one another and while any other time the noise might be a negligible background hum, right now Paul feels his palms sweating and throat turning dry-sure signs of a sensory overload threatening to rear its ugly head. </p><p>“Isn’t that right, Paul?” says Ted, far too loud and suddenly far too close to him. He smacks Paul on the shoulder playfully and Paul just-he just-</p><p>The good news is he makes it to the bathroom in time. He kneels on the cold tile of CCRP Technical’s men’s room, heaving up blood and flower petals along with what little he’s managed to eat over the past couple of days into the toilet. Hot tears stream down his face and he’s aware, vaguely, that this is a real low point for him. The bad news is in his hurry he forgot to lock the stall. The second Paul hears footsteps coming up behind him he fumbles desperately for the flusher, determined not to let whoever’s there catch even a glimpse of flora among the vomit. </p><p>“Paul?” comes Bill’s soft, concerned voice. Of course it’s Bill, who else? The man has always been too kind for either of their good. Paul wants to say something to reassure him, make a crack about food poisoning, but all that comes out are a few wheezing breaths and a pathetic whimper. He closes his eyes, wishing more than anything that he could just vanish into thin air and pretend this isn’t happening. “Hey, hey, easy. Can I touch you?” asks Bill, voice still hushed and low as if he’s talking to a frightened animal and not a thirty one year old man having a breakdown on the floor of his workplace bathroom. Paul manages a jerky nod and a warm, steady hand comes into contact with his back, rubbing small circles as he continues to gag and wheeze into the toilet. “Easy, man, easy. I’ve got you.” </p><p>Eventually the worst of the nausea passes and Paul flushes the toilet again before turning round so he’s sat facing Bill, still shaky and breathing too fast and shallow, but at least he’s not throwing up anymore. Bill offers him an encouraging smile before taking an exaggerated breath in and slowly letting out, motioning for Paul to copy him. Slowly but surely his breathing begins to even out, though he still feels shaky and about one wrong move away from a complete breakdown. </p><p>“C’mon, I’m taking you home,” says Bill once it’s clear Paul’s not about to pass out. Paul takes the offered hand and doesn’t resist when Bill all but drags him to his feet and towards the door. </p><p>“Mr Davidson?” he asks, too tired and rung out to form a full sentence, but trusting Bill will understand what he means anyway, and he does.</p><p>“Charlotte told him you had food poisoning and he said one of us should take you home, and then Charlotte yelled at Ted for bothering you when you’re clearly not feeling well,” replies Bill, and Paul makes a mental note to thank Charlotte when he next gets the chance. Which is much sooner than he expected it to be, actually, because as Bill maneuvers them towards the lift she appears with Bill’s jacket and both of their bags in her hand. Bill takes them both and Paul mutters his thanks and something vague about takeout food disagreeing with him that she doesn’t seem to believe in the slightest, but is too polite to call him out on. </p><p>“Feel better soon Paul!” she calls as he stumbles into the elevator, and Paul tries to convince himself those aren’t the last words she’ll ever say to him. It’s hard though when he feels so completely fucking terrible. By the time they make it out of the building Bill has given up any pretense of Paul walking on his own, and instead loops his arm round Paul’s waist as they make their way through the car park. It’s a testament to just how terrible Paul feels that he doesn’t try to pull away from the touch like usual, and a testament to how much weight he's lost than Bill barely struggles to drag him along. </p><p>The minute he’s sat in the passenger seat of Bill’s old car, Paul feels his eyes slip closed. It isn’t far from CCRP to his house, not long enough for him to fall asleep completely but he gives it a good go anyway. Bill is silent for the whole drive, and when they pull up to Paul’s apartment complex he doesn’t say anything either, just helps Paul out the car and walks them both to the lift. It’s only once they’re both sat on Paul’s couch, Paul with a glass of water in his shaking hands, that Bill breaks the silence. </p><p>“What is going on Paul?” he asks, voice strained with worry. Paul considers lying to him again, giving him the pneumonia line, or saying he had an anxiety attack, which is at least half a truth-anything to let him keep living the lie where he has longer to live. When he looks Bill in his eyes though, he finds all the things he wants to say get stuck in his throat. Bill is his best fiend, has been for a long time, he deserves the truth. And, if he’s being honest with himself, Paul is tired of carrying this around by himself. </p><p>“I have hanahaki,” he whispers, so quiet that Bill might not hear him, but he does. At least if the moment of confusion followed by understanding and horror is anything to go by. Paul remembers the messier parts of Bill’s divorce, how worried Bill had been that either he or his wife would contract the disease and leave Alice short a parent. To this day he’s not sure if the fact that neither of them caught it is a sign that they never loved one another to begin with, or proof that if nothing else they love Alice enough to still have some distant feelings towards her other parent. If anyone will understand the implications of Paul’s diagnoses, it is Bill. </p><p>“Are you sure?” he asks, anyway, because Bill does not want this to be true, he wants to have misheard and for Paul to have said something altogether less horrifying. Unfortunately Paul nods, numb and resigned. “Emma?” is the next question to come out of Bill’s mouth, and Paul nods. “How long?” </p><p>This time it takes Paul longer to respond, his fists tap together nervously on top of each other. Once he says this there’s no going back, once another person knows then it will become true and he will be dying. </p><p>“I’ve got three, maybe four weeks left,” he says eventually and the words land between them, heavy and earth shattering. </p><p>“Isn’t there anything they can do? There has to be something,” Bill’s voice is slipping into desperation even as Paul shakes his head “surgery or-something!” </p><p>“Too risky,” says Paul and then pauses to hack up a few petals, missing the way Bill’s face pails even further at the now familiar sound, panic setting in now that he understands exactly what his friend is coughing up and why. </p><p>“Paul-” Bill starts, stops, is unsure what to say that can make this better. It’s the way his voice breaks and the undisguised horror in his eyes that finally makes it sink in for Paul. He is dying, in a month or less he will be dead and there isn’t a damn thing anyone can do to stop it. No more trips to Beanies, no more early morning smiles from Emma, no shit jokes from Ted, or kind words from Charlotte. For the first time since this began Paul feels real genuine terror unfurling in his stomach as the truth makes itself known: he does not want to die. </p><p>“Bill,” what else can he say? For the second time today he feels tears welling in his eyes, but this time they’re accompanied by a sob that tears itself free from his chest and loosens a few more petals on the way. All of a sudden Bill’s arms are around him, holding Paul tight as he sobs into his work shirt. Bill is crying too, Paul can feel the tears falling onto his neck from where he is hunched over, clinging to Bill like a frightened child. Neither of them say anything, there’s nothing to say, nothing that can possibly make this better. Instead they just hold one another tight, and cry. </p><p>- - - -</p><p>Paul doesn’t go back to work, in the end. He has some holiday he’s been meaning to take, between that and his recent health problems Mr Davidson is happy to let him have a few weeks off, ending his email with a smiley face and a demand that Paul spend time with his loved ones and relax. It’s sweet, and Paul feels almost guilty for not getting to know the guy beyond handing in his weekly reports and occasional Christmas parties, but there's nothing he can do about it now.</p><p>Things become a little easier to deal with now that he’s not dealing with them alone. Bill drives him to his next lung scan and follow up appointment where Doctor Morgan looks, if possible, even more grim faced than he did last time. With a solemn voice he informs Paul that the growths have now expanded to an extent where even if Paul changed his mind about surgery, it would be too risky to carry out anyway and when he says goodbye after the appointment there’s a sense of finality to his voice that makes Paul feel sick. Bill has him over for dinner most evenings, gently pushing Paul to eat at least something substantial each day, and doesn’t even complain when nine times out of ten Paul inevitably throws it all back up along with a heap of petals. </p><p>The one person he doesn’t see for over a week is Emma. Maybe now that the denial phase is over Paul is willing to take his physician's advice a little more seriously and avoid her, but mostly he is just too nervous. He texts her saying that he’s swamped with work and that between that and his lungs still being a bit fucked up he can't hang out for a little while. Surprisingly she ends up phone calling him almost every other night, chatting shit about customers she’s served and generally trying to make his days that little bit less shitty. Sometimes Paul wonders if she isn’t close to falling for him too, even if the flowers in the lungs prove otherwise. Maybe if they had more time together they could confess their love and everything would be fine, but time isn’t in their favour and Paul, it seems, is destined to choke to death on his feelings for her. </p><p>He can’t avoid her forever though, nor does he want to. One afternoon after a morning spent alternating between napping and cuddling Patricia he decides he’s wallowed in self pity enough. If loving Emma is going to kill him, then he wants to have at least loved her in a way worth dying for, and he cannot do that if he’s hiding away in his apartment. The walk to Beanies is short, but he’s still breathless and wheezing by the time he gets there. It’s a little later in the day than he would usually turn up and the cafe is mostly empty, which is probably why he’s able to hear the exchange over the soft music playing over the speakers. </p><p>“Hey Emma, your nerdy boyfriend is here,” says one of Emma’s coworkers, Zoey, he thinks. Emma walks out from the back, rolling her eyes and flipping Zoey off as she walks. </p><p>“He’s not my fucking boyfriend, don’t be gross.” </p><p>Weirdly, it isn’t her words that trigger what happens next. Paul knows Emma, knows well enough to hear the humour and fondness lacing her voice. She’s said things like that in the past to his face, and he’s laughed along with her, content to let Emma set the pace in their not-relationship. So even though her words now make the ache in his lungs a little more prominent, that’s all they do. It’s when she looks up at him as he walks towards the counter, eyes full of warmth and looking relieved to see him, when she gives a soft “hey,” along with her smile-it’s then that Paul’s chest suddenly seizes in on itself more intensely than ever before. </p><p>Whatever he was going to say is lost as he begins coughing, and doesn’t stop. Even as he doubles over, eyes streaming with tears and unable to drag even a little air into his lungs the coughing doesn’t stop. One of his hands reaches out for the table behind him as he tries to keep himself standing against the sudden onslaught, and over it all he can hear Emma calling his name in an increasingly frantic voice. He wants to tell her that he’ll be okay, it will pass, but he can’t. Something larger than a handful of petals is trying to work his way up his throat, he keeps coughing unable to take a single breath as his knees finally give out, connecting painfully with the cafe floor. Someone is screaming now, somebody else saying something about an ambulance but Paul can’t make sense of it anymore. </p><p>Darkness is gathering at the corners of his vision as he continues to hack and rasp, blood splattering across his hand. Someone is gripping his shoulders, trying to hold him up as he slumps towards the floor. He tries to say Emma’s name, to tell her that he’s sorry, that it’s not her fault. Instead all that passes his lips is a perfect, blood stained purple hyacinth, he stares at in horror, still coughing. </p><p>And then, nothing.</p>
  </div><div class="fff_chapter_notes fff_foot_notes"><b>Notes for the Chapter:</b><blockquote class="userstuff">
          <p>Stan Bill Woodward or die by my blade.</p>
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<a name="section0003"><h2>3. Chapter 3</h2></a>
<div class="story"><div class="fff_chapter_notes fff_head_notes"><b>Summary for the Chapter:</b><blockquote class="userstuff">
            <p>
  <i>And now Paul might die too. Emma tries to tell herself to stop being dramatic and that Paul will be fine, but the image of him hunched over on the floor of Beanies hacking up blood is burned into the back of her eyelids. Every time she blinks she sees his terrified face and the way he’d tried desperately to say her name around those god awful sounding coughs that wouldn’t let him breathe. She should have pressed when he said he’d had pneumonia, or when she noticed his suit jacket was starting to look a size too big for him. She should have done a lot of things and now she might not get the chance.</i>
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    <p>Emma Perkins can’t remember being this scared in her life. Her shitty old car chugs along towards Hatchetfield Hospital and she grips the steering wheel with white knuckled force to stop her hands from shaking. She knew something was up with Paul, has known for a little while now if she’s being honest. Nothing has changed in the way he talks to her or laughs at her shitty jokes, or in the way she sometimes catches him looking at her like she’s single handedly hung the fucking stars in the sky. He’s been more anxious lately though, more withdrawn, and carrying a kind of sadness with him that Emma curses herself for not asking about sooner or more intently. Maybe she would have too, if she wasn’t so convinced he’s been avoiding her for the past week. </p><p>Here’s the thing: Emma knows that this whatever it is between her and Paul has always had an expiration date. Eventually she will get board and flighty just like she always has in the past and the whole thing will be over. Or Paul will get tired of waiting around on someone who will never settle down and move on to someone who can be the kind of partner he actually deserves, who will do all that romantic shit with him and won’t want to throw up at the word boyfriend-she thought that’s where things were going this week. That Paul was avoiding her because he was trying to hint that this thing between them was going to be over soon, that he’d had enough of her refusal to commit. What she hadn’t been expecting when this all started was that six months on her heart would still leap at the sight of Paul, and that she would want to spend time with him just to be around him and nothing else. The problem is that Paul is a good man, a bit blunt and lacking in tact maybe, but sweet and caring when it counts. Two months into their not-dating Emma had finally told him about Jane and Paul hadn’t judged, hadn’t questioned why Emma didn’t spend more time with her sister when she had the chance, or tell her that she didn’t deserve to grieve for a woman she’d spent so much time ignoring. Instead he’d just listened, held her when she started crying, and when he said I’m so sorry he was the first person since Jane’s death who seemed to genuinely mean it. </p><p>And now Paul might die too. Emma tries to tell herself to stop being dramatic and that Paul will be fine, but the image of him hunched over on the floor of Beanies hacking up blood is burned into the back of her eyelids. Every time she blinks she sees his terrified face and the way he’d tried desperately to say her name around those god awful sounding coughs that wouldn’t let him breathe. She should have pressed when he said he’d had pneumonia, or when she noticed his suit jacket was starting to look a size too big for him. She should have done a lot of things and now she might not get the chance. They wouldn’t even let her ride in the ambulance with him, and his unconscious, pale body being loaded onto a stretcher with an oxygen mask over his face cannot be the last of Paul she gets to see. </p><p>The drive to the hospital isn’t long but Emma could swear it takes hours until she’s pulling into the parking lot of the familiar building. Even so she sits in her parked car for a few minutes longer, wanting to go in but terrified of what she might find when she does. What if she’s too late? What if she walks in there only to find that Paul’s already dead?  She doesn’t think she can survive losing someone else. The longer she sits in the car, the higher the chances of her finding Paul’s corpse become, so with great effort she forces herself to get out and walk through the sliding doors of the hospital. </p><p>- - -</p><p>“What do you mean I can’t go in and see him?” there’s a waver in Emma’s voice and she hates it. A brief conversation with the receptionist had helped her find the room where they’re keeping Paul (alive, thank God, at least for now). She’d pushed open the door but hadn’t even managed to step foot inside or actually see Paul when a stern faced doctor had ushered her out again. There are tears welling in her eyes, but of anger now instead of fear. </p><p>“Well unless your name is John Matthews you’re not his next of kin, and if you’re not Bill Woodward-didn’t think so, then you’re not his emergency contact. I’m sorry ma’am but they’re the only people we’re letting in right now.” if she were being generous Emma would say the doctor sounds almost genuinely sorry, but she isn’t in the mood for seeing the best of people at the moment. Paul could be dying right behind that door and not only will no one let her see him, they won’t even tell her what’s wrong. </p><p>“Please, I’m his girlfriend,” she tries desperately, not even caring that they’ve never actually put a label on their relationship; something she insisted on. If possible the doctors frown deepens and he shakes his head. </p><p>“I’m sorry Miss Perkins but you can’t go in. I’ll have a nurse escort you to the waiting room and we’ll let you know if there’s any change in his condition.” He says. Emma wants to point out that an update on his condition would require her knowing anything about it in the first place, but before she can do so a nurse is walking her to a waiting room with false charm and empty apologies. </p><p>Emma does consider, briefly, saying fuck it and just sneaking into Paul’s room as soon as the doctor’s back is turned. The nurse mutters something to the waiting room’s receptionist and points at Emma though, probably marking her as some kind of flight risk. Shit. With the receptionist watching her it’s too risky, too likely to bring security down on her and cause a fuss right outside of Paul’s room which is probably the last thing he needs right now. Emma knows how he feels about loud unexpected noises at the best of times, never mind when he’s sick.</p><p>For forty three minutes Emma watches the clock in the waiting room, alternating between sitting on the chair, pacing, and staring at the vending machine. They have peanut butter cups, which she knows Paul loves, but she’s short ten cents in change to get them and that alone is enough to bring her almost to tears again. Some kind of not-girlfriend she is, can’t even buy him his favourite candy while he’s laying in a room she can’t enter, possibly dying. There’s a scream welling in her throat and she’s about thirty seconds away from just punching the fucking thing and taking the damn candy when-</p><p>“Emma? Emma Perkins?” </p><p>Becky Barnes. Of all the nurses in the hospital, of all the goddamn people in fucking Hatchetfield, who should be here but Becky Fucking Barnes? Emma doesn’t even have a chance to pretend not to hear her before Becky is walking over, putting a hand on Emma’s shoulder in what’s probably meant to be a comforting gesture but just serves to make her more pissed off at this whole situation. </p><p>“What are you doing here?” asks Becky instead of backing off like Emma wants her to. She’s about to tell her to fuck off, fully intends to in fact, but the words get caught in her throat. Emma will not let Becky Barnes see her cry, she refuses. But god, god she’s so scared. </p><p>“It’s Paul,” she says and hates herself for the way her voice catches, hates Becky more for forcing this vulnerability out of her. Emma is not good at being emotional around people, least of all the woman trying to replace her sister. Right now though the only person she can think about isn’t Jane, but Paul. Alone and sick and scared. “They won’t even tell me what’s wrong and they won’t let me go and see him and-fuck,” Emma’s not crying, not quite, still won’t give Becky the satisfaction, but it’s a close thing. She has to put a hand over her mouth to try and hold in her spiralling panic and fear. Becky looks at her for a moment, annoyingly sympathetic and understanding before nodding. </p><p>“Do you know which room he’s in?” she asks, eyes flashing with something Emma doesn’t recognise-something hard and determined which doesn’t belong on the face of Becky Barnes. There’s no time to question it though before she’s nodding and pointing out the room to Becky who nods in return. “Give me one minute.” she says, before walking towards the hospital room as if she owns the place. Emma sits down, hardly daring to hope before watching, stunned, as Becky walks out of Paul’s room and towards the receptionist. The two talk for a moment in voices too low for Emma to hear, occasionally throwing looks Emma’s way before the receptionist nods. </p><p>“Come on Miss Perkins, why don’t I take you to the canteen, you can wait for news there,” says Becky, cheerful and sugar sweet as always, but she winks to Emma as soon as the receptionist isn’t looking at her. As soon as they’re in the corridor Becky stops them both, a hand on Emma’s arm. “I really shouldn’t be doing this but Paul wants to see you, no one told him you were here, but now that he knows…” Becky trails off looking pained before seeming to make her mind up about something and nodding to herself. “You deserve a chance to see each other, if that's what he wants. I’ll keep watch.” </p><p>There’s a lot to process in that. The fact that Becky Barnes is helping her for a start, or that cheerleader school spirit golden girl Becky is willingly breaking the rules to help the Perkins family fuck up. No one told Paul she was here, though, that’s what stands out to Emma most, that and the fact that he apparently wants to see her. </p><p>“Thank you,” breathes Emma, still stunned, somewhat aware of the fact that she now owes Becky a favour and hating it, but too relieved to care too much about that at the moment. Becky nods, says something about being gentle with him that Emma doesn’t quite catch before gently pushing Emma into Paul’s room. </p><p>He looks terrible. For a moment Emma just stands with her back to the now closed door and stares at Paul. God, when did he get so thin? She knew he’d lost some weight but not this much, not enough for the hollows in his cheeks or shadows under his eyes so dark they look almost like bruises. There’s a tube up his nose that she assumes is to help him breathe, but each breath still seems to take an age for him to draw in and the movement of his chest is jerky and painful looking. He’s awake though, blue eyes hazy with exhaustion and what she assumes must be a fuckton of painkillers, but awake and smiling at her with genuine warmth.</p><p>“Paul-” his name is all she manages before the damn breaks and the tears finally start falling. A few steps lead her over to the chair next to his bed and she grabs his too skinny, too cold hand and holds him tight. The fact that he isn’t dead hardly feels worth celebrating given how much he looks like a corpse, or the way he’s wheezing as if every breath might be his last. </p><p>“Hey,” his voice is rasping and weak, but full of the gentle softness he uses so often when talking to her. </p><p>“Paul, what’s going on?” she’s terrified of the answer but she has to know. Even now she’s stupidly hoping that everything seems worse than it is and that Paul will be up and about in no time, laughing at her for being so worried while being embarrassed at causing such a scene in Beanies. That hope is dimming at the sight of his pale face and the way his eyebrows draw together in pain with each laboured breath. For a moment she thinks he won’t answer and when his eyes fall closed she thinks he’s fallen asleep, or worse. </p><p>“I have hanahaki,” he says after a few seconds of excruciating silence filled over by his rattling chest and the steady hum of hospital machinery. It’s only three words but they seem to leave him exhausted; not that Emma can tell over the sudden ringing in her ears. Because Emma-oh Emma knows all about hanahaki. As a teen she’d been delighted by this gross, weird disease and had spent hours of morbid fascination reading up on cases of people spewing up roses until they died. As an adult it’s served her as another reminder about why falling in love is a terrible idea: what’s the point of putting your heart on the line when being vulnerable with someone can literally kill you? Better to stick to one night stands and quick flings than risk choking to death on her feelings for someone. All of a sudden she remembers the flower at beanies, purple and blood speckled on the floor where Paul had slumped into unconsciousness. She hadn’t put two and two together at the time and had barely registered it in the panic. It makes a horrible amount of sense now though, and she feels the breath catch in her own lungs as she realises what’s growing in Paul’s. </p><p>“I’m sorry,” continues Paul, voice the barest whisper. “I didn’t want to tell you,” he pauses, takes in a few laboured breaths, “I didn’t want you to feel guilty but-you deserve to know.” </p><p>It’s that quiet apology that snaps Emma back to her senses. Paul’s been coughing for weeks now and must have known for most of them exactly what's wrong with him. How long has he known he’s dying but kept the knowledge to himself because what-he didn’t want to manipulate her? Didn’t want her to feel guilty about the fact that she’s literally killing him? It’s stupid, and it’s clearly a terrible idea, but it’s also Paul. The man’s been dying a slow painful death, and he’s still been trying to put Emma’s feelings first. </p><p>“Paul-” god what does she say? What can you even begin to say to something like this? Paul is dying and it’s her fault, no matter what he might say to try and convince her otherwise. Maybe if she’d been more open, less hard edges and closed off feelings he would be okay. Part of her wants to yell at him for not telling her sooner, but what's the point? What could shouting at him now achieve other than killing him faster? </p><p>“It’s okay,” says Paul, eyes finally opening and his hand giving hers the barest squeeze. “You don’t have to say anything or stay I just-you deserve to know. I’m sorry I didn’t tell you earlier,” if he was going to say anything else it’s lost to a fit of coughing so intense Emma feels her own lungs ache in sympathy, and she watches in horror as a handful of blood soaked petals fall from his lips. </p><p>Paul Matthews is not allowed to die. Emma is more sure of that than she has ever been of anything in her life, because a life without Paul would be unbearable. Even the thought of it terrifies her: never hearing him laugh again, never teasing him for turning redder than anyone she’s ever seen in her life when she flirts with him even after all this time. What would be the point of staying in Hatchetfield if Paul wasn’t there to make her laugh after shitty days at work, to swing by Beanies on his lunch and his break even though he hates their coffee but it's worth it for the minutes they spend together. She pictures a life never waking up next to him again, never watching him talk at a hundred miles an hour about one of his special interests, or snapping embarrassing pictures of him asleep on his couch with Patricia. She imagines graduating community college without him there in the crowd, cheering and beaming and probably crying with pride for her. </p><p>Paul Matthews cannot die, because Emma is in love with him. The realisation hits her all at once, but it doesn’t scare her like it has every time it’s gently brushed against her mind in the past when her feelings towards him became deeper than friends with benefits should allow. It feels right, it feels inevitable-and now she might lose it. </p><p>“Paul, I love you,” the words come out shaky and quiet but she means them more than she’s meant anything in her life. </p><p>“You don’t have to-” </p><p>“No, let me finish. Paul-god. Paul, you were willing to die rather than make me feel trapped or guilty, you laugh at my shitty jokes and you’re not afraid to tease me or call me out when I’m being an ass. You’re so fucking kind and sweet and I love how much you love stupid films and how much you hate musicals. You’ve been so fucking patient with me and I’m sorry I didn’t realsie it sooner but fuck. I love you Paul Matthews, I love you so much,” she’s crying properly now, tears streaming down her face but she doesn’t bother wiping them away. Paul is looking at her, eyes wide and mouth open in shock which would be funny if the situation were any less horrifying, </p><p>“Emma I love you too-I love you,” he says, as if it needs to be said. As if he hasn’t shown her as much in the way he always makes her favourite food when she’s stressed, or the way he lets her steal all the blankets at night and doesn’t even put his cold feet on her in revenge. A thousand tiny love confessions over the course of months, and now this: his lungs bleeding and full of flowers. Even now, dying and in pain on a hospital bed, Paul is grinning at her like this is all he’s ever wanted in the world. </p><p>“I love you, Paul Matthews. So don’t you dare die on me,” she says, voice firm this time and her hand gripping his tightly, as if she can make him live through sheer force of will. He’s still pale, still wheezing in laboured breaths that sound far too close to death rattles, but he smiles at her. </p><p>“I’ll do my best.”</p>
  </div><div class="fff_chapter_notes fff_foot_notes"><b>Notes for the Chapter:</b><blockquote class="userstuff">
          <p>Sorry for the slight delay in posting this chapter! This is my first time writing anything from Emma's pov and it was giving me a bit of trouble! Hopefully the final chapter will be up before Christmas, but I do work in retail so we'll see!</p>
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<a name="section0004"><h2>4. Chapter 4</h2></a>
<div class="story"><div class="fff_chapter_notes fff_head_notes"><b>Summary for the Chapter:</b><blockquote class="userstuff">
            <p>
  <i>Recovery doesn’t happen overnight. Hanahaki is an aggressive disease and Emma’s realisation and subsequent confession can’t change the fact that Paul’s had thorns growing in his lungs for the better part of two months. The growths wither and rot but the scars remain.</i>
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    <p>Recovery doesn’t happen overnight. Hanahaki is an aggressive disease and Emma’s realisation and subsequent confession can’t change the fact that Paul’s had thorns growing in his lungs for the better part of two months. The growths wither and rot but the scars remain. Flowers dry up and die but they still have to come out somehow-their browning, wrinkled petals heaved into countless pulp sick bowls. No, hanahaki is not an easy disease to recover from, especially in the late stages-but it can be done. </p><p>Paul sits in Dr Morgan’s office, and Emma is holding his hand. When Dr Morgan walks in the room Paul barely recognises the man for a moment, not because he’s changed dramatically since he was last here, but because the usually grim faced doctor is <i>smiling</i>. </p><p>“Well Mr Matthews, Miss Perkins, I suppose congratulations are in order,” are the first words out of his mouth, and Emma smiles even as Paul feels himself blush. The fact that Paul is sitting in the doctor’s office, alive, is proof to anyone who needs it that Emma loves him, but the whole thing is still strange and new to Paul himself. Dr Morgan shakes his hand, shakes Emma’s too and offers her a kind smile before sitting at his computer and pulling up charts and scans that Paul couldn’t figure out the meaning of if he tried. For a while Dr Morgan talks about pulmonary fibrosis, which he assures Paul is at least manageable if not actively treatable, and that it shouldn’t grow any worse now the cause has been addressed. A lot of it goes over Paul’s head, but the whole time Emma holds his hand tight and asks questions about symptom management, and pain levels, and even if Paul’s insurance will cover everything. Eventually Dr Morgan shakes their hands again and they leave his office for the last time, Emma’s hand still in his. </p><p>A week later Paul returns to work, much to the delight of Charlotte and Bill, and even Ted who sheepishly apologises for what happened last time Paul was at the office. Paul, who has never liked his job and has spent plenty of time actively avoiding socialising with his co-workers, smiles at the three of them and laughs at their jokes. He accepts Ted’s apology and eases the man’s guilt a little by explaining that he’d had some personal stuff going on at the time, and that Ted wasn’t entirely to blame for his breakdown. When Bill invites him over for dinner with Alice and her girlfriend at the end of the week, Paul accepts and promises to ask Emma if she wants to come too, and both he and Bill are kind enough not to mention when the other gets a little choked up at their ability to make plans together again. Perhaps most surprisingly, when Charlotte forgets herself and pulls Paul into a tight embrace, he hugs her back. It’s enough to make Charlotte flustered and Ted make a joke about him being replaced with a clone while he was gone, but Paul doesn’t care. He’s alive, a little more breathless and prone to wheezing than he used to be maybe, but alive. </p><p>A month after his final appointment with Doctor Morgan, Paul and Emma sit in the park by their apartment eating ice cream. Paul’s not up to much walking today, but the sun is shining in a perfect blue sky and it feels a shame to spend the day indoors. Emma had pulled a face at his suggestion of a slow walk round the park, all too ready to argue he needs to take it easy (and she’s right, he does, but there’s guilt in her words too and Paul will do whatever it takes for however long it takes to make her realise she has nothing to be guilty for) but had agreed to his compromise to ice cream while sitting by the pond.</p><p>“I can’t believe you got plain vanilla,” says Emma around a mouthful of colourful birthday cake flavour. “Fucking nerd.” </p><p>“It’s a classic. Why fix what isn’t broke?” he replies, smiling at her and at the ducks and at the general wonder of being alive sitting here with Emma Perkins. </p><p>“No, you’re just boring, Black Coffee. Ice cream needs sprinkles and shit or there’s no point in even having it,” Emma grins and sticks out a sprinkle coloured tongue. He smiles down at her softly for a moment, before taking his spoon and stealing some of her ice cream for himself. </p><p>“Hm..no I still like mine better,” he says at the same time Emma calls him a devious bastard. They both laugh then, warm and genuine. The sun beats down on them both, no doubt turning Paul bright red despite the sunblock he was sure to put on before they came out. A month ago he didn’t think he would have this. Barely five weeks ago he was writing his will and talking to Bill about what kind of funeral he wanted. Paul Matthews never expected to be the kind of man who would cheat death quite so dramatically, but here he is. </p><p>“Hey,” Emma’s voice pulls him back to the present, she’s looking at him with concern, voice now soft and free of any teasing. She’s been doing that a lot lately. “You alright Hot Stuff? What’s going on in that big brain of yours?” </p><p>“Nothing, I'm just...glad I’m here, I guess.” he says. There’s no need to elaborate on what he means, not when the scars are still so fresh in both of their minds. Emma takes one hand off her now empty ice cream cup to rest on his leg. </p><p>“I’m glad you’re here too,” she says, and he knows she means it. There’s still a lot to unpack between the two of them, a lot of guilt to work through and a lot of baggage from both of their pasts that they will have to work through. Paul will have bad days where his damaged lungs get the better of him, and Emma will have days where she longs for the freedom of backpacking across Guatemala instead of a mundane life in Hatchetfield. They’ll make it through all of it though, he knows they will. Together, he and Emma hand in hand, he doesn’t think there’s anything they couldn’t face. </p><p>“I love you,” he says, and Emma smiles. </p><p>“I love you too.” </p><p>In the bright brilliant sunshine they kiss. Their whole lives are stretching out before them, and Paul for one cannot wait.</p>
  </div><div class="fff_chapter_notes fff_foot_notes"><b>Notes for the Chapter:</b><blockquote class="userstuff">
          <p>And there we have it! My first ever completed multichapter fic. Thanks to everyone who stuck with me throughout this whole thing, and a very merry Christmas to those of you who celebrate it!</p>
        </blockquote><b>Author's Note:</b><blockquote class="userstuff"><p>me: wow I can't believe you're all daring me to write a paulkins hanahaki fic<br/>everyone: dee literally no one asked you for this<br/>me: haha stop daring me to do this it's wild</p></blockquote></div></div>
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